"So, basically speaking, no one had the balls, or the honor, to confront me."

[hazlogs]

It is currently 05:15 Pacific Time on Sat Apr 26 2003.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 43 degrees Fahrenheit (6 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the south at 8 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.80 and rising, and the relative humidity is 97 percent. The dewpoint is 42 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waning Crescent Moon phase (35% full).

An hour or so after the crack of dawn, and it's raining again. Salem, coming back from his jog, nearly soaked and clad in black sweatpants and matching hooded sweatshirt, lets himself into the apartment building and crosses the lobby toward the stairs up.

As Salem steps into Red Mill, someone catches the door before it can completly close and follows him inside.

Salem turns quickly, reflexively.

And standing there, calm as can be, is Renee. "Mornin'," she rumbles softly. She looks healithier then on their last encounter, has changed her clothing and touched up that dye job.

Salem eyes the young Gnawer. "Good morning," he responds, coolly. He pushes back the hood of the sweatshirt and pushes back a wet strand of hair. "Something up?"

Renee smirks. "You really should try changin' yer routine a bit more often. Makes it far to easy ta keep tabs on ya." The young woman shakes her head in amusement. "But yea, got somethin' ta talk ta ya about. Wanna step inta yer place? Out here," she indicates the hallway. "Ain't really the place fer it."

Salem shrugs. "Your concern is noted." He makes a beckoning gesture and turns back for the stairs. "Fine, come up, but keep your voice down."

Renee snerks. "Hey, I'm always quiet."

Salem responds to this with a deadpan, "Ha," and leads her up the stairs. Six flights. Despite the fact that he's just come from a jog, the long climb doesn't seem to leave him the least bit winded.

Renee doesn't have any trouble keeping up, but she is relativly fresh. As she climbs the stairs, she begins to hum softly to herself. Some song, that is currently popular on the radio.

Salem leads the Gnawer up to the apartment, unlocking it and letting himself in. He holds the door open so that she can enter. The place is dim, only a bit of early-morning light coming in through the open right-hand bedroom door; the left-hand door is closed. "Coffee?" the Walker offers. By the smell, there's a fresh pot brewing in the kitchen.

Renee shrugs. "Sure. Anyway, came up here ta talk ta ya about that UL buildin'. Tryin' ta organize an attack against it. Figured you'd want in."

Once the door's closed behind them -- and the chain set, nothing else -- Salem pockets his keys and stalks toward the kitchen. "Naturally. You still have those building plans I gave you?" His back to her, he pulls off the black sweatshirt, revealing a white t-shirt underneath.

Renee nods. "'Course. Also got someone willin' ta make some noise on the inside ta keep'em a little distracted, when we head inside."

Salem drops the sweatshirt onto a stool and tugs the t-shirt down. "Should have someone give it another scouting. Yi, perhaps. Be interested to find out if anything's changed since the Sept got rid of the bloodleech host, shadowside." He takes down a couple of mugs and pours. "Milk?"

Renee's right cheek twitches and she stuffs her hands into her pockets, taking a second to answer. "Yea, sure."

Salem turns slightly, perhaps because of that pause, and eyes her for a moment. Then he turns away, expression neutral as he gets out the milk and adds it to one of the mugs.

Renee holds out a hand for a mug. "Be good ta have someone check it out again. Shouldn't send her in alone, considerin' what happened ta me."

Salem hands it over, then leans against the counter to sip from his own. He drinks it black. "Hm," he says, expression thoughtful, eyes narrowed. "I can back her up. Unless you have someone else in mind that you want to send with her."

Renee scowls. "You really that good Shadow-Side?" Its faint, but there is the unmistakable hint of a challenge in her voice. "Or Raul, considerin' that he is a Theurge."

Salem's mouth thins. "Shadow's been taken care of. It _should_ be clear. Hell, we tore down the damn pattern webbing in the place and cleansed it." Despite the flicker of irritation in his eyes, his voice remains low and even.

A door opens - the roomie sticks her head out the door, looks between Renee and Salem and mumbles, "Oh God..." before rubbing her face. Sniffing and stifling a yawn, the redhead mumbles, "Hi Renee, morning Jack," and slips back inside, closing her bedroom door with a soft 'click'.

"Morning, Mel," Salem replies, quite casually.

Renee snorts and sips at her coffee. "Doesn't mean that both sides shouldn't be checked. That happened a long time ago. Yer a Walker, you should know how fast the fuckin' spiders build things. Scoutin' should involve both Relam an' Shadow, or yer missin' half the battle. Don't start bein' an arrogant prick. Only get ya killed faster." Renee's head turns toward the openening door and she stiffens. "Ya know Salem, keepin' a human ain't smart. Some of us remember what happened with Glissa," she hisses.

Salem keeps his temper. Quite admirably, in fact. He takes another sip of coffee. "Glissa was kin," he says coldly. "If anything, Glissa is a reminder that family shouldn't be disregarded or ignored. In any case, the point is moot. I'm not 'keeping a human', as you so charmingly put it."

Renee tilts her head ta one side. "Not the way I heard it. Should talk ta Andrea 'bout her. Accordin' ta her, there was no family in her background. She could us' put up with us. There are some humans who can, ya know. S'what makes those ones so dangerous. Have a nasty habit of goin' nuts after a bit." The Gnawers eyes flick toward the freshly closed door. "What, you claimin' her as Kin?"

Renee says "Ya got proof? An' if ya do, why the fuck haven't ya told anyone else? Been hearin' from more then one person that they ain't happy with you havin' her here. Even talk of brinin' the situation to the Alpha herself.""

Salem's eyes narrow again. "Really. Right to Andrea. Do not pass Go, do not confront the Philodox in question." The temperature in his voice has dropped several degrees. "I see. As it happens," he says coldly, meeting Renee's eyes in that heavy, direct way of his, "she comes from an _extensive_ Fianna bloodline via her mother."

Unusually enough, Renee does not meet the Walker's eyes. "Fuck yea. Who the hell is gonna come ta ya, when they figure that you'll jus get all huffy an' possibly cut'em a new one. You worry the fuck outta some people an' you can stop gettin' so fuckin' huffy," Renee half-growls. "I'm jus' the messenger, even if I agree with'em. Now, how about ya open yer yap and tell people 'bout that for fucks sake." The Galliard looks back at the walker, eyes focusing on level with his nose. "Word was that you were probably thinkin' with the wrong head. S'no wonder no one wanted ta come ta ya." Renee shakes her head. "Why the fuck haven't ya told people? 'Fraid the Fianna might come ta claim her?"

Salem keeps his gaze steady on hers. "So, basically speaking, no one had the balls, or the honor, to confront me. You will, before you leave, give me names." It isn't a request or a question; it's an order, no bones about it.

Renee blinks and this time, she does meet his eyes. "No. People are welcome ta their worries. You're the one who should learn ta fuckin' talk ta people. Yer not so great, that the world should always come to yer door. Yer such an arrogant shit-head, sometimes."

"Fuck you." Salem's voice is calm. Dead calm. Carefully, he puts his coffee mug down on the counter without looking away. "You insult my intelligence, my honor, my ability to keep the Litany, and in my own home and on my own territory." He shifts his weight, straightening up from his lean against the counter. "You insult my judgement, not to mention my self-control. You, Renee, of all people, should value my closed mouth. But, yes, perhaps I should be more open. Keep less secrets from my fellows. I'm sure the Moot will be _very_ interested to know about you, your cub, and your Metis whelp." He hardly pauses to let this sink in, though his words have a crushing weight to them. "Names. Now. I _will_ know who's been talking behind my back without the courage or the _respect_--" The word is snarled out slightly, with a flash of teeth. "--to bring their concerns to my face."

Renee's face goes several shades paler, then flushes red and she snarls. "I did nothin' of the sort!" She snaps. "Sometimes, people do dumb shit an' they always have their reasons. Doesn't have anything ta do with bein' dumb or not! For fucks sake, I know that better then anyone else! We all make mistakes, you asshole! I have, you have, we all have! Jesus fuckin' christ. This is why no-one wants ta talk to you, you know that? I come here, I tell you whats up and what people are worried about. I /didn't/ go to Andrea and this is what I get for it. Threats and fucking demands! I'm a Galliard, not a fuckin' snitch." The girls teeth grind and nails dig into the palms of her hands. "You told me that if I kept up my end of the bargin, you wouldn't tell anyone about my daughter. Or use her against me. I kept my word. I've kept her and she is /mine/. Keep your own word."

You paged Renee with 'She still meeting his eyes?'.
From afar, Renee hmms. No. The floor.

And despite the snarling and raised voice, Mel's door remains resolutely closed.

Salem bares his teeth in a smile that has nothing genial about it; it's the smile of a beast, baring fangs before it goes for the throat. Larry Niven, when writing about Kzin warcats, might have pictured a smile like this. "I haven't told anyone. I haven't even told my pack. I haven't even told _Rina_. Nor do I intend to. Because, Renee, my business is my business, my secrets are my secrets, and because I _don't_ feel the need to go babbling about everything I know like a goddamned Corax." His fingers flex, hands opening and closing slowly. "I trust people to do their job. I, naively it seems, assumed the opposite was also the case. More fool me." He takes a step toward her. "Names, Renee. Don't make me ask again."

There is quite a bit that Renee would like to say in response to this, but she knows when she is outmatched. The coffee mug falls loosely from her fingers and she bolts, Rage speeding her steps. By the time the mug hits the ground and shatters, she has sliped the lock free from the door. Opening it, she makes a run for it.

Salem is after her like a shot, but this time he's not quite quick enough to catch her before she's out the door and pounding down the hallway. Rather than chase after her, wake the whole apartment, and further alienate his neighbors -- most of whom want nothing to do with the creepy one-eyed demon on the sixth floor -- he pulls up short and lets her disappear down the stairs.

It's a small city, after all, and she can't avoid him forever.

He's trembling with repressed rage as he retreats back into the apartment, breathing hard as he slams the door shut, hands shaking as he replaces the chain, then turns the lock and bolt. For a moment, there's quiet. Then Mel, in her room, hears approaching footsteps, and another door slams. His bedroom's.

The right-hand bedroom is the larger of the two and possesses a spartan neatness. The twin-sized bed is set along one wall, under the window, the dark blue bedsheets hidden under a black comforter. Next to the bed is a nightstand with a small reading lamp and a digital clock with large red numbers, while the dresser sits along the opposite wall.

Only a few items sit on top of the dresser, but among them is a fist-sized potting jar made of shiny red plastic, containing red primroses. The glyph for Gaia has been painted on it in black. Next to the primroses is a second, much taller potted plant, a phaleonopsis orchid -- broad green leaves, a tall, thin stem, and several lilac-colored blossoms at the top. Nothing hangs on the walls, and no pictures are displayed anywhere.

The desk that sits next to the dresser holds a portable stereo and a small collection of CDs. Most of these are classical, professionally produced and probably store-bought, but there are two of the 'burned and bootleg' variety. One's titled 'Stuff' and the other 'Nonsense' and the list of songs on each -- a quirky mix of modern music -- is written in the same perky printed handwriting, with smile-faces between each track.

A closet at the far end of the bedroom holds clothing, almost all of it black, a padded rifle case, and a locked strongbox. A full-length mirror hangs on the inside of the closet door.

More quiet afterward.

After a while of silence on the part of both parties, Mel emerges - a little warily - from her room, and starts cleaning up the smashed mug, silently, and finding some soap to start scrubbing into the carpet. Whilst waiting for some of it to soak in, she quietly paces back to her room, fetching pillow and blanket to dump on the couch.

Cockroaches scuttle away from the girl, one making a beeline for the catfood and vanishing behind the small plate. The coffee pot continues to keep its contents warmed, while Salem's mug, hardly touched and still sitting on the counter, cools slowly.

She leaves those, and after she's done with the scrubbing and the wiping up, and re-scrubbing, Mel conscientiously sets a timer on her watch. She curls up on the couch, pulling the blanket up over her, and watching the coffee stain on the carpet, blankly.

It's more than an hour before Salem's door opens and he emerges from it, unfrothing and somewhat pale. His hair, dried now, is loose and tangled, still showing the impression left by the elastic. Mel's watch alarm has beeped and gone silent, and the girl sleeps on. He looks at her for a moment, dully, then disappears into the bathroom. The shower starts running.

She doesn't notice. Dead to the world.

She's awakened, eventually, by a hand on her shoulder, shaking gently. He's showered and dressed, the usual combat boots and dark colors, wet hair combed and tied back. The shadows under his eyes are dark.

The woman blinks, muzzily, and then scowls at the level of light in the apartment. Reality, and that grim face, seep in, and she starts. "Fuck. How long... Oh God..." she mumbles, looking towards the carpet.

Salem follows her glance, though without much interest. He straightens up, adjusting the set of the black duster, the way it hangs on his tall frame. "Don't worry about it," he says, without inflection. "I just woke you up to let you know I'm going out."

"Oh." Mel rubs her face and sits up a little, pushing the blanket down. "Cool. ...Thanks." She looks back to him, eyes alert and wary. "You alright? Y'don't wanna talk ab-- oranythin'?"

Salem shakes his head a bit. "No... later, perhaps." He reaches into the coat and pulls out the dark glasses, but doesn't put them on yet. "I apologize for... earlier."

"No sweat. I didn't really know." She looks away and hitches a shoulder. "Sorry for... all this."

"Not your fault." He puts on the sunglasses. "I'll be back by this evening, at the latest. Probably earlier. I'll call if anything comes up." His voice is still leaden.

Mel nods absently a few times, eyes on the carpet's stain. "Sure. Cool. I might go out, do some shopping."

"Fair enough," he says in quiet acknowledgement. Salem turns for the door. "Be seeing you," he says, and then leaves.

After he's gone, she simply gives up and flumps back onto the couch, curling to sleep until she's sated.